


Showdown

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Like, M/M, Sappy, Sort Of, Steve Rogers is a shit, Very Very Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-03 17:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15823470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Bucky was happy for Steve, he was. But did he and Tony have to be so disgustingly romantic all the time? // In which Bucky is tired of Steve and Tony's antics and Clint suggests revenge, which turns out with an additional bonus.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm considering making this a two-part story, but... I don't know. We'll see. The most irritating thing is that I have to sit here for an hour and reformat the entire fic once I'm done. WordPad sucks.

He was going to kill them.  
  
"Nice and warm, honey?" Steve murmured, and Tony blearily nodded from where he was comfortably settled in Steve's lap, his hair brushing Steve's chin, a blanket tucked around them.  
  
The team- he used the word loosely, because some of the members came and went as they pleased, and some of them weren't even technically Avengers (like Bucky himself)- was spread out in the common room, watching some sort of movie Bucky didn't understand and didn't really _want_ to understand either. It seemed to consist of a British man in the ugliest suit he'd ever seen getting into more trouble than was strictly necessary, and while Steve hadn't been British or worn a suit, he'd had enough trouble for a lifetime. And what was up with that teddy bear, honestly? Unfortunately, there wasn't much else to entertain him, and to top it all off Steve and Tony were being disgustingly romantic next to him. He was sitting with Natasha next time. Although Natasha tended to share her space with Wanda and Vision, and while he didn't logically think Wanda was going to do anything to him, the idea that she could made red flags stand up in his head. He sighed and slumped further into the corner of the couch, hoping that if he curls up small enough he might just melt into the couch and become a mindless piece of fabric.  
  
Steve presses a soft kiss to Tony's forehead and Bucky grimaces.  
  
He was happy for Steve, he _was_ \- Tony balanced Steve's energy with way too much of his own, and for all the fights they had, they did seem happy with one another, comfortable in a way he didn't remember Steve being with Peggy. But they were horrifically romantic. All the time. All. The. Time. And no matter how happy Bucky was for Steve, it didn't change the fact he didn't want to get up in the morning and see them feeding each other fruit and calling each other pet names. He could straight-up tell them they were gross, but it probably wouldn't stop them. In fact, from what he'd garnered of Tony's personality, it might actually end up making them _worse_ than they already were. Maybe he should just call the government and let them take him in like they'd wanted to do when he'd first started living in the Tower. An empty, cold jail cell was sounding pretty good right about now.  
  
Something bumps his denim-clad knee and he looks down to see a beer bottle, still cold from the fridge. Attached to the beer are calloused fingers clad in a black leather gauntlet, and attached to the fingers is Clint, who's managed to seat himself on the floor by Bucky's bare feet. There's plenty of room on the couch next to Bruce, but hey, if he's happy there, that's his choice. Sometimes you had to make the bad choices in life. Bucky takes the beer with a nod of thanks, twists off the cap with his metal fingers and then reaches to take the cap off of Clint's as well. Clint's hair was wet, sticking up in places it logically shouldn't, and he was still wearing his tactical vest, along with the rest of his uniform. He'd been out on a mission again, then. No one talked about where he went or what he was doing, so Bucky guessed it was something either illegal or extremely personal. Clint disappeared every few days like clockwork, coming back with a split lip and bruises blooming on his skin and bandages wrapped haphazardly around a new part of his body. No one said anything about it, so Bucky didn't either.  
  
Clint tilts against Bucky's leg, resting the side of his head on Bucky's knee, and watches the movie silently, even though there's an empty space where he knows purple hearing aids should be. He couldn't see the use in watching a movie if you couldn't hear it, but Clint seems happy enough, and he radiates enough warmth that Bucky lets him stay, even if his hair is making a damp patch on his knee. He relaxes back and manages to sink into a half-asleep daze- he does that a lot now, if just because he can't seem to turn his brain off enough to sleep properly- that is, until he hears Steve whispering something that sounds like he copied it from an old medieval romance novel. He turns and eyes Steve off with what Clint had dubbed 'the murder glare,' but his friend doesn't even notice. He's too busy romancing Stark. He turns away, disgusted, to find Clint looking at the happy couple, nose scrunched up like he's smelled a bad egg.  
  
Clint notices him looking and makes a gagging motion, and Bucky snickers loud enough that Natasha shushes at him. He stops laughing, but Clint's eyes are bright with amusement and they smirk at each other before Clint holds one hand up and signs, _you want to get out of here before I puke for real?_ Bucky nods fervently and they slink out of the crowded room, the only one noticing them being Vision, who holds one hand up in a silent wave. He doesn't react, but Clint salutes back with energy before they make their way into the communal kitchen. The lighting's better here, and when he leans up against the steel fridge he sees the slight limp in Clint's walk as he sets down his bow. The quiver is nowhere to be seen, and a closer inspection has him noticing the way the black fabric on the man's left thigh is dark with something that's decidedly not rain. Clint continues drinking his beer nonchalantly, like he doesn't have an injury or a care in the world, and Bucky sighs.  
  
_What_ , Clint signs. _I don't still have blood on my face, do I?_  
  
Two months after Bucky had ended up in the Tower, he'd realised that even though Clint was deaf and had his aids out a disproportionate amount of the time, only Natasha actually knew sign language, and she never bothered to use it except in extreme circumstances. HYDRA had made the effort to to program him with ASL, weirdly enough, so he used it whenever he noticed Clint didn't have his aids in. He wasn't entirely sure if Clint appreciated it or not, but he'd sign back, and it had to be easier than trying to read lips all the time. Bucky didn't bother signing back, just opened a cupboard and rummaged around until he came up with the beaten-up first aid kit they kept there. He sat it on the bench and then stared at Clint expectantly, until he got an eyeroll and Clint was sitting down on the stool in front of him, setting his half-empty beer down.  
  
Now he was a few inches away, Bucky could see the yellowing of what would be a nasty bruise on Clint's jaw, and the slash on his upper arm that wasn't new. At least a few days old, by the looks of it. It wasn't weeping yet, but it certainly didn't look good, caked with dirt and dried blood and god knows what else. Bucky sighed. Did he even make an _effort_ to take care of himself when he went out doing whatever it was he did? Clint raised an eyebrow but he ignored it, getting the disinfectant out and dabbing it gently onto the cut. He bandaged it, too, paying no attention to the indignant huff he got for it. If Clint didn't want to be fussed over, he should be taking better care of himself. Bucky stood back once he was done so Clint had some room to breathe, and to take off his clothes.  
  
_Pants off_ , he signed.  
  
Clint's eyes danced with amusement. _Not even going to buy me dinner first?_  
  
_Don't deflect. I can see the blood, Barton_ , Bucky answered, giving Clint a look that didn't allow for excuses. Clint rolled his eyes at him, but obediently got up and toed off his combat boots before shucking off his tight pants, letting them crumple on the ground before he sat back on the stool, socked feet waving back and forth idly. The injury on his leg was fresher than the one on his arm, at least, but it was deeper, would probably scar. Not that _Clint_ seemed concerned about it at all, Bucky thought mutinously as he stepped between Clint's spread knees to grab the disinfectant again. Clint's socks were damp, too, where he was poking them against Bucky's leg- had he been rolling in the snow outside or something? Jesus Christ. He finished with dressing the wound and looked up to see Clint looking past him at something in the other room, something jaded and bitter in his expression. The minute he noticed Bucky looking, though, the look disappeared.  
  
_You gonna get a haircut for the wedding?_ Clint signed to him.  
  
_Wedding_? Tony laughed at something behind them and he grimaced. Was it too much to hope they wouldn't get married for a few more years? At least until he could move out. Get a place far, far away- too far to attend the wedding, what a shame that would be. Gross. _And no, I'm not cutting my hair. Steve wants me to, but..._  
  
He didn't have the words to explain, so he finished with a shrug. He got the feeling the other understood anyway. He didn't want to look like the person he used to be. Clint regarded him for a moment, eyes travelling to where his hair was tied in a messy bun, and smiled. _I like it long anyway. You look like a sexy lumberjack._  
  
Bucky frowned at him. _I could snap your neck with my little finger and you're calling me names?_  
  
_You won't_ , Clint signs confidently, hooking his leg around Bucky's thigh to pull him closer. _Anyway, I'm partners with Natasha, you can't scare me, pretty boy._  
  
Bucky starts at the contact, but Clint's eyes are bright and mischievous as he tugs at a loose piece of fringe, twists it around his finger gently. He lets him. He's aware that technically Clint is just as, if not _more_ dangerous, than Wanda is, but he trusts him not to do anything he won't like. This close, Clint smells like blood and sweat, and there's a faint hint of booze on top that suggests he'd been to a bar before he'd come home. Tequila, he's guessing. Clint seemed to have a strong relationship with tequila in the same way Tony liked his whiskey. Still, it's comfortable enough, letting Clint do what he wants, so he just stands there and enjoys the contact, the idle interest in the other's face. Clint lets go of his hair to sign, a sly look on his face.  
  
_Hey, you think we should give them a taste of their own medicine?_  
  
_What does that mean_ , Bucky signs suspiciously.  
  
_They might stop if they realise how disgusting they are_ , Clint replies. _We could... demonstrate?_  
  
_What, like be horrifically romantic to each other?_  
  
_Sure, if you want. If Steve gives me the shovel talk, though, I'm bailing. He's scary._ Bucky snorts, and Clint's face crinkles up with amusement. If Clint was scared of Steve, Bucky was a horse's ass. Clint wasn't intimidated by anything or anyone, which was probably why he was the only one who'd bothered to make a friend out of the former Winter Soldier. Steve thought they got along because of the shared trauma, he'd implied one day to Bucky, but it was more along the lines of Clint treating him like a normal person. Steve still expected him to be the old Bucky Barnes, and the others expected him to go nuts or stab someone. Clint expected a beer, and for someone to listen to him complain about life. He didn't get frustrated when Bucky stopped talking, and he stayed out of hitting range when he was in a mood. It was easy with Clint, who... was waiting for him to pay attention, whoops. Clint's eyebrow lifted slightly and then he was signing again quickly.  
  
_He already thinks we're fucking, and the compromising position he's watching us talk in doesn't deny it._  
  
_What_? Bucky turns his head and sure enough, there's Steve, leaning up against a wall with his arms crossed. He looks embarrassed at being caught staring, but if Clint had noticed him before now he'd obviously been there a while. And without Tony, what a surprise. He's just standing there, the weirdo. Watching him hang out between Clint's spread, mostly-naked thighs. Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, signing _what the hell, he deserves it_ , between their chests where Steve can't see, and he hears Clint snort. It'd be nice to have some fun amongst all the trauma and sleepless nights. He wondered if Steve thought he was corrupting Clint, or something. He'd done that to a few boys back in the day, and even if he didn't remember their faces he remembered Steve's exasperation at the antics.  
  
"Can I help you, Steve?"  
  
Steve goes faintly pink. "Natasha paused Mr Bean's Holiday. Are you two coming back to finish the movie, or...?"  
  
"Oh, I dunno," he turns a mild smirk on Clint, gets a sly look back as he signs along with his words. "We might just call it a night, hey, Barton?"  
  
"Sure thing, sweet cheeks," Clint answers verbally, a little too loud. Bucky tries not to laugh, because if he laughs Steve will know they're fucking with him, and he hears Steve cough behind them, puts on a nonchalant face as he turns back.  
  
"Alright, see you later then, Stevie. Say g'night to the others for us, yeah?"  
  
He steps out of Clint's space and packs up the first aid kit, tucking it away in its spot neatly. Until next time, faithful medical supplies. He'd probably need them again in a week, which reminded him to turn and add butterfly stitches to the shopping list pinned to the fridge with a black arrowhead. Steve seems too stunned to actually say anything, because he's silent behind them as Bucky throws cotton swabs in the bin and picks up Clint's trousers, folding them over his shoulder neatly instead of giving them to Clint. He wonders if Steve's surprised about the pet names or the fact that Bucky and Clint have just implied their relationship out loud. He watches as the blond drains the rest of his beer and then tips the bottle into the sink with a clink. Clint turns to him then, and sticks out his bottom lip thoughtfully.  
  
_You gonna carry me? I'm tired_.  
  
_Lazy motherfucker. Fine_ , Bucky signs back with an eyeroll, but if they're doing this they're going to do it right. Clint's eyebrows rise curiously, but he spreads his knees invitingly. And wow, that's taking his mind places it didn't need to be going. Although, according to Steve, apparently, they'd already been going there before now. He was kind of impressed Steve thought either of them was mentally stable enough to have a friends-with-benefits thing going on. He steps in close again and Clint wraps his legs around Bucky's hips, holding on tight as he's lifted. Despite the fact he isn't that small, he's light, comfortable to carry, and the thought that _hey, birds have hollow bones,_ makes him smile as Clint loops his arms around his neck. He turns and offers a wide-eyed Steve a nonchalant wave with one hand, the metal one under the curve of Clint's ass.  
  
When the elevator doors slide shut Clint's giggling against his neck helplessly, his stubble scraping Bucky's collarbone. He hopes Steve can't hear through that much steel as he taps the button for Clint's floor and hitches him up a little higher on his waist.  
  
**  
  
"Sweetheart, could you get me a refill?"  
  
"Of course, doll. Anything for you," Bucky says dryly, picking up the offered mug and walking over to the coffee machine. He hears Wanda's snort without seeing her as he fills up two cups and pushes one over to her. She accepts it with a nod and goes back to where Clint is sitting with Vision, showing him something Clint insists is important: a battered comic book proudly labelled in an eye-searing orange as 'Garfield The Cat.' Vision seems politely confused as Clint begins explaining the complexities of why, exactly, a cat would be eating Italian pasta dishes instead of actual cat food. Bucky fills up Clint's mug and brings it over to them, ignoring Tony's stare of disbelief as he sets it on the table, and he's worked in deception before so it's a piece of cake to keep a straight face. He rests his chin on the curve of Clint's shoulder, wondering how a man whose diet consists largely of pizza and cookies can be such an uncomfortable and bony resting place. Clint continues explaining a comic panel to Vision, who's looking increasingly confused the more he speaks, and Bucky just enjoys the hum of his voice and the agitation he can feel coming off of Tony.  
  
It takes until Steve enters the room, sweaty and followed by an exhausted-looking Sam, for him to break. Steve offers everyone a distracted greeting which they all return, rummaging through the fridge. He comes back with a vat of juice (they'd learned early on that there was no point buying cartons when they finished them in an hour) and Sam flops down on a stool next to Tony, who's been eyeing them for the last hour and doesn't look like he's going to stop anytime soon. Clint has given up on trying to explain the book to Vision and has let him escape in favour of pushing Bucky down in the chair to sit on his lap. Clint isn't a morning person, not really, so he's leaning back against Bucky, dozing. He's about ninety percent sure it's not for Tony's benefit but rather because he runs hotter than the others, to the point where he's been compared to a space heater. Steve is the same, really, but Clint can't exactly cuddle with him. Well, he could try, but Tony would kill him.  
  
"Anyone want some juice?" Steve offers.  
  
"Mrgh," Clint answers intelligently. "Coffee?"  
  
"You've had three fuckin' cups already, take a break. He'll have juice, Stevie," Bucky says, and Clint grumbles at him but takes the glass when Steve wordlessly passes it over.  
  
Tony gapes at them, and he raises an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
"Barton, you dirty boy," Tony exclaims. "How long?"  
  
"Hrmgh?"  
  
"You don't even let Natasha get between you and coffee," he elaborates, and Clint shifts on Bucky's thighs. "Is this _serious_?"  
  
Bucky had been cutting off his coffee supply before they'd started this fake-relationship-thing, but he didn't say that out loud. The man was going to kill himself with that much caffeine on top of the alcohol, it was common fucking sense. If Clint died, who was he going to hang out with besides Steve? Vision? No thanks. Thor? Too optimistic for him. Bruce Banner still made him nervous in the same way Wanda did, that angry voice in his mind yelling _threat_. Natasha might tolerate his company, but he knew he made her nervous. It was understandable, considering he'd shot and nearly killed her on top of the vague memories of the Red Room that accosted his senses every now and then. She'd been a good fighter, even then.  
  
"Of course it's serious, isn't it, pumpkin?" Clint purred, twisting around to plant a kiss on Bucky's nose.  
  
He manages not to snort, gets distracted as Clint's lips brush his gently and turn it into a proper kiss. Clint still tastes a little like coffee, mixed in with the apple juice he'd just had, and it makes a weird combination, but the kissing is nice enough that Bucky still melts into it. Considering it had been more than seventy years since he'd last done this with someone, he was allowed to enjoy it. And Clint certainly doesn't seem to mind. When they break apart Clint's eyes are dark and unreadable, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Bucky swallows, hard.  
  
"Wow, okay, I've clearly died and woken up in an alternate dimension. Didn't need to see that. Goodbye," Tony announces as he escapes.  
  
Bucky's vaguely aware the others are still staring at them. Whoops. Clint looks like he's debating leaning in again, and he probably wouldn't say no to that. Jesus, why were they doing this to annoy Steve and Tony when they could just be doing things normally? Oh, right, because they were both emotionally constipated. Right. At least they'd succeeded in making Tony uncomfortable. Steve was going to be a lot harder to crack. Clint blinked slowly and Bucky noticed the blue of his eyes was nearly violet in the lights from the kitchen.  
  
"Oh," Steve says distantly. "By the way, we have a mission."  
  
Clint turns back to him. Bucky tries not to be disappointed. "Doing what?"  
  
"An international arms dealer's been spotted in Brooklyn. We're supposed to ambush the deal and apprehend everyone involved."  
  
"Since when do we do the police's work for them?" Wanda piped in, crossing her arms.  
  
Steve sighs. "Since the weapons being sold are stolen StarkTech."  
  
"Right," Clint says wearily. "When are we heading out?"  
  
"Tonight. Eight o'clock. We're going in stealth, so it'll just be me, you, Wanda, Natasha, Sam and Bucky. Tony and Bruce aren't really built for... tact, and Vision stands out too much."  
  
"Need me sniping, or...?"  
  
Steve shakes his head. "I need you on the ground. Clint can handle the ranged stuff."  
  
He nods in assent, and Steve leans back on the counter, staring off into the distance.  
  
**  
  
They had more than StarkTech, as it turned out. Steve flies back, lands on a car with a crunch that rattles in his eardrums, but he doesn't have time to check on him as the masked woman in front of him swings what seems to be some sort of upgraded electric cattle prod. It swings past his ear, crackling ominously, and he tries to sweep her feet out from under her and misses. She swings the prod again and he grabs the non-electrified bit with his metal hand, yanks it hard enough that it goes past his shoulder and miraculously hits a man that was coming up behind him. Bucky kicks her in the face, swings around to grab the prod and snap it in two. No thank you. He's had enough of being electrocuted for approximately five lifetimes. The man who's just been zapped is on the ground, looking dazed, and Bucky steps on his face and ignores the comments over comms about 'excessive violence.' They were here to get the job done, not to be nice.  
  
Something blows up a few streets over and Wanda shouts over the comms, the earpiece staticking out for a minute. Steve stops in front of Bucky, inspects him quickly for injury, and he stays where he is and lets him fuss for a minute. Ever since they'd reunited Steve had felt a compulsive need to check on him during the middle of fights, and it was easier to just let him carry out his inspection than to leave him to stress. He shifts on his heels and tries not to look impatient, his fingers twitching on the glock in his right hand. Eventually those roving blue eyes reach his face and Steve nods approvingly before they start running to the site of the explosion. There they find Wanda, who's apparently blown up a van containing the StarkTech they'd wanted to grab, setting fire to a nearby store, and why did they think _he_ was the risk, the dangerous one, when shit like this happens?  
  
"No civilians in this place, right?" Sam calls over the comms with concern, and Bucky can see him drifting above them.  
  
"Nope, all safe. Although our job was to _recover_ the weapons, not to destroy them," Steve says pointedly, hands on his hips, and Wanda's shoulders drop. Bucky claps a hand on her arm comfortingly for a second before inspecting the flaming husk of the van. There's nothing that can be recovered, though, so he walks over to an empty bakery, smashes the window and grabs a fire extinguisher. It doesn't help much, but it stops the fire from spreading across the street. The store that's already on fire is looking to be a lost cause, and Steve's called the local fire department. Natasha joins them, gives Wanda a look that says everything Captain America hadn't, and Bucky winces in sympathy. Sam drops down next to her and distracts her from glaring, saying something about hostiles two streets away, and they set off to take care of it.  
  
"Are we missing someone?" Steve asks, frowning. "Clint?"  
  
"You _had_ to set fire to the building I was standing on," Clint grumbles, sounding breathless. Oh, shit, he was up there? Wanda let out a panicked noise from behind him as he looked up into the smoke. "Hey, Barnes, heads up."  
  
"Wh-"  
  
There's a dark shape hurtling down from the roof of the building, and he just manages to catch Clint in his arms before he hits the concrete. The bow hits him in the head painfully, bounces to the ground, and he swears, nearly drops him. Clint lets out a pained groan, and landing on a metal arm can't possibly be comfortable, surely there were other, _safer_ , less painful ways of getting off of a burning building. Bucky scowls at the blond in his arms, turns to see Wanda's wide eyes and Steve's look of utter exasperation. Clint doesn't seem to notice or care about the reaction to his stunt, wiggling in Bucky's arms.  
  
"I think I just fell for you," Clint says gleefully.  
  
Bucky snorts before he can stop it, and Clint winks.  
  
"Maybe try a safer drop next time," Steve offers, rubbing his forehead. To be fair, this is pretty on-brand with Clint's normal behaviour, minus the terrible pick-up lines. He shifts Clint so he's balanced a little more comfortably against his chest. The quiver is still annoying. Steve waves to a stressed-looking Wanda and gets on the phone, probably to tell Tony that they'd exploded his beloved tech. Oh well. He doesn't really care, to be honest. Blown up is better than being in enemy hands. Sam and Natasha reappear at the end of the street and wave, and Steve walks over to them as he talks on the phone. Now he's not looking, Bucky doesn't have to be sappy anymore, right?  
  
"Long live the King," Bucky says dramatically, dropping Clint on his ass.  
  
"You're banned from Disney," Clint threatens.  
  
"You can't do that," he answers in a scandalized tone.  
  
"FRIDAY likes me better," Clint reasons, taking his hand to be pulled to his feet when he offers.  
  
Bucky snorts.  
  
**  
  
"I wrote you a love note," Clint announces.  
  
Bucky sets aside his sci-fi novel on the couch and ignores Tony, who looks absolutely appalled at the idea anyone would write him a love note, in favour of looking at his sort-of fake boyfriend. Clint's bouncing on his heels excitedly in ratty jeans and a shirt he's pretty sure was in his own wardrobe until today, a piece of folded paper in his hand. Clearly he'd been inspired by Steve's first attempts at romancing Tony- he'd borrowed an old romance novel from the library downtown, made a long letter, and had proceeded to read it aloud to them all, much to everyone's disgust and Tony's delight. Bucky was sure Clint's love note would be much better, or at least more entertaining than Steve's. He loved Steve like a brother, but oh man, he really needed to work on the romantic factor. _Fonduing_ , for god's sake.  
  
Clint doesn't read the words in the note out loud, but instead unfolds it gently and presents it to Bucky at an angle Tony can't see from the armchair. On the blue paper is an extremely sketchy looking drawing of two figures in purple pen, one with an anatomically incorrect metal arm and one with a bow, holding a trophy that states "SAPPIEST COUPLE IN THE AVENGERS" in gold. In the corner of the paper there's a scribbly Iron Man with tears coming out of the helmet and a Steve sitting on the ground, looking despondent. Bucky barely manages to hold in his laughter, and Clint's eyes are bright with mirth as Bucky accepts it from his hands. He's fairly sure Tony's glaring at them from the couch.  
  
"I love it," he says gravely. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He stops, thinks for a minute, then adds, "Besides you, of course."  
  
Clint's smile breaks out into a full grin. "No, you."  
  
"No, you."  
  
"No, _you_."  
  
" _No_ , you."  
  
"I'm leaving," Tony says abruptly, getting off of the couch. He and Clint are nearly nose-to-nose by this point, smiling at each other, and he can faintly smell Clint's deodorant. And yes, that _is_ his shirt- when had there been time to steal it? And why did it need to be stolen in the first place? It was just plain black, nothing exciting about it in the slightest. They continue staring at each other with amusement as Tony's footsteps stomp away behind them, stopping abruptly in the doorway to the kitchen. Bucky turns his head slightly to see Steve lean down and plant a kiss on Tony's forehead. He murmurs something that sounds extraordinarily sappy in Tony's ear and Clint scrunches up his nose a little bit even though there's no way he heard it the way Bucky had. Clearly they weren't being nauseating enough yet. They'd have to up their game somehow.  
  
_We'll get them eventually,_ Clint signs to him. _They may be genuinely sappy, but we're prettier than they are._  
  
Bucky snorts and presses his forehead to Clint's, closing his eyes so he can pretend Steve isn't there. He pushes aside thoughts of taking Clint out for real, leaving Steve and Tony and this ridiculous business behind, and the gears in his head turn to plotting. Maybe when they finally push his best friend to the breaking point, he can take Clint out and buy him twenty pizzas and they can go and play laser tag or something. But it's going to take a lot to break Steve, hopeless romantic that he is. They're going to have to come up with something really impressive.  
  
**  
  
When he finally gets around to going to bed, Natasha is sitting on his bed playing with her phone.  
  
They'd spent the night in the common floor kitchen, where Bucky had made spaghetti (Clint was supposed to be making it, but he somehow managed to fuck up boiling the water and was sent to the table) and they'd re-enacted Lady and The Tramp. Even though his sort-of fake boyfriend kept getting distracted and turning, breaking the strings of spaghetti when a song he knew came on the radio. Still, it had been worth it as Clint regaled him with tales of the circus and his adventures as a child with them- Bucky wasn't sure he liked Barney Barton very much, and it wasn't just the terrible name. Honestly, even _Buchanan_ was a better name than Barney. Terrible.  
  
It had been also been worth it for the look on Steve's face when he walked in and they were casually eating from each end of one noodle and met in the middle with a kiss. Turns out Bucky's supersoldier hearing was good for picking up and memorizing the pattern of people's walk, including Steve's. So what if they'd held the noodle in their mouths for twenty minutes before he happened to come along, that was why they used sign language to communicate. When they broke apart Steve had both eyebrows raised up like they were going to disappear into his hairline in a minute. Bucky had managed a questioning look, but Clint had to hide his snorting with a coughing fit.  
  
Still, he hadn't actively complained about them yet. He'd just sighed and gone to get the milk out of the fridge while Clint was still coughing. Clint hadn't _actually_ died, so he wasn't sure why Natasha was looking at him like that.  
  
"James," she says in greeting, setting her phone down.  
  
He eyes her off dubiously and sits on the office chair opposite her, silently assessing the amount of weapons he had on his person. Too many for a normal person, probably not enough to fend off a fully-armed Black Widow. Still, she just leans back and crosses her legs neatly, green eyes dark in the light from the solitary lamp next to the bed.  
  
"What can I do for you, Natasha?"  
  
She smiles. "I believe I'm supposed to be giving you the shovel talk."  
  
He raises an eyebrow. "There's no way you don't know about Clint's plot to annoy Steve and Tony."  
  
"Oh, I know, don't worry."  
  
"Then why are you here if you know it's all fake?"  
  
She gives him an unimpressed look at that, folds her arms over her chest. Bucky wonders how exactly Clint had managed to charm this dangerous, knowing woman, and he got the feeling it had been exactly the same way he'd managed to charm Bucky, too. Clint had his own weird gravity that attracted people, and everyone else just orbited around it. Except maybe Tony Stark.  
  
"We're just fuckin' around," Bucky says. "It's not... I'm not going to pull out a ring, or anything."  
  
"I wasn't expecting you to," she answers. "But he trusts you, and it's important you don't break it."  
  
"Why aren't the rest of the team getting this talk too, then?"  
  
Natasha sighs, looks up at the ceiling like the AI is going to step in and help her explain. "How many times have you seen Clint actually touch someone since you've been here? Hug someone? Let them help him up when he falls over?"  
  
Bucky thought about it. Clint was an affectionate guy, with pretty much anyone he came across. He'd practically adopted Wanda, after all. But... then again, when he thought about it more, he realised what Natasha meant. Tony would come in for a hug, he'd duck out of the way and make a joke. Steve went to help him up, he'd get up on his own. He'd sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Natasha in the Quinjet, but if anyone else sat next to him he'd get up and pace around the space, fiddling with something. Not to mention the way he'd perch up in the rafters when they did training sessions, to Steve's irritation and everyone else's amusement. It wasn't noticeable because he was that good at playing it off, but she was right. He didn't touch anyone willingly but her.  
  
And him.  
  
Natasha looks out the window, the look in her eyes distant. "After the Chitauri- after Loki, he wasn't the same. It broke him a little."  
  
He can understand that. His memories of his time as the asset are foggy, completely gone in places, but Clint _remembered_ being controlled, and that would take a toll on anybody. They were both a little bit broken, cracked in places and still trying to seal them up the best they could. It made sense that Clint wasn't entirely comfortable with the team, but it didn't make sense that he'd picked the former Winter Soldier to put his fragile trust in. Maybe he had a thing for former Russian assassins. Maybe he just wanted someone who understood what he'd been through. Natasha breaks out of her reverie with a slow blink and turns back to him, watching him with an intensity he didn't like.  
  
"Do you trust him?"  
  
"Yeah, but- I'm not-"  
  
"Trusting him means you need to trust that he knows what he wants, too," she adds.  
  
"He hasn't said anything about wanting me," he replies, sounding a little bitter even to his own ears.  
  
"Not with his words, he hasn't," she says, standing up. "I'll see you around, James."  
  
He watches her leave silently, not being able to find the right words to say to her as she tucks her phone in her pocket and disappears. So. She was implying that Clint liked him, possibly wanted more than a fake flirting relationship. Trusted him more than the others. But how was he supposed to approach something like this? _Hey, Clint, I know we've been fake dating, but I want more and Natasha says you want more, too, and I kind of want to take you out for disgustingly greasy diner food and play all the music I missed in the nineteen hundreds with you_. He snorts, gets up off of the chair and falls facefirst onto the bet. The duvet smells faintly like Natasha's perfume.  
  
He doesn't have any idea what he is supposed to do.  
  
**  
  
Clint found him on the roof. He didn't say anything, just settled down next to him and dangled his legs off the edge of the Tower- Steve had probably informed him of what had transpired, considering how Bucky had told him to fuck off and had run up here to lurk for most of the day. He was allowed to be in a bad mood. Especially when these weird psychologists kept treating him like he was a child, or too stupid to make his own decisions. He'd had enough of people making choices for him, he wasn't about to allow some random woman with a clipboard decide what he can and can't do. They hadn't pulled this kind of shit in the thirties- or with HYDRA, but he didn't really need a shrink as the Winter Soldier because he couldn't even remember what it was he was feeling sad about.  
  
Clint's wearing a singlet, something that's hopefully ketchup smeared on his chest, and a pair of ratty jeans. His hair's more messed up than usual, flicking out to the left oddly, and there's a new bandaid on his jaw, neon pink and garish. He's probably been on his floor all day, waiting for Bucky to come around so they could plot new ways to gross out Steve, and he's gone and ruined it with mandatory SHIELD shrink visits. Although Clint doesn't seem pissed off or put out in the slightest, and when Bucky sneaks a glance at him Clint's just watching him quietly, something like understanding in his eyes. He still doesn't say anything, though, just turns his head so he can look at the city instead of staring into Bucky's soul with that knowing look he'd learned from Natasha- or Natasha had learned from him.  
  
"I hate shrinks," he says finally, breaking the silence.  
  
"Me too, man. Me too," Clint agrees quietly. "Steve said to tell you he put your new pills in the bathroom cabinet."  
  
Right. _Those_. The things that had him running out here in the first place. Bucky sighs heavily, staring out at where the sun was starting to dip between two skyscrapers. It felt like the afternoon sky was pressing on his shoulders, trying to put as much pressure on him as possible. Stupid panic attacks. Stupid medication. He wondered if he went to lockup somewhere whether they'd make him take pills. Probably. Clint doesn't pressure him the way Steve had, just sits there and keeps him company. Waits for him to talk instead of squeezing it out of him. It was ridiculous that Clint was apparently the one that trusted Bucky, went to him for comfort and physical contact, when Bucky was more of a mess than he was.  
  
He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I just- I know realistically they're not going to hurt me, but..."  
  
"You don't even want to lose even that tiny shred of control?"  
  
Bucky glanced at Clint, who was still looking out over the city, but his eyes were distant, faraway like he got himself when he remembered something particularly vivid. He wondered if Clint saw blue lights and Loki's smile out of the corner of his eyes sometimes the way Bucky saw ice and that chair. He hoped it wasn't the case, although he guessed it probably was.  
  
"You sound like you know from experience."  
  
"Maybe," Clint said noncommittally, knocking his bare shoulder against Bucky's metal one. It was weird, how he didn't seem to give even a little shit about the arm. Like it was just a normal arm, except for how he'd try to do his hair in the reflection of it sometimes. Like he just... accepted it as it was. Accepted Bucky as he was.  
  
"Tell you a secret?" Clint asked. "They prescribed me a bunch of pills too, after the invasion. Depression, trauma, anxiety, whatever you name. I flushed them all."  
  
"And that's... okay?"  
  
Clint shrugged. "Nah. But I'd rather be a dangerous, paranoid insomniac, it turns out."  
  
"Yeah," Bucky agreed. "You don't seem- looks like it's working for you, anyway."  
  
"I still have the nightmares," he explains after a pause, still not meeting Bucky's eyes. "The flashbacks, too. Sometimes I end up sitting in the bottom of the shower just spaced out and nauseous for hours. But I get up again. I always get up again."  
  
He took Clint's bruised, scarred hand with his metal one. Not angling for anything, just trying to indicate that he heard, that he understood. He saw Clint's lips curl up into a smile briefly as he looked down at their linked fingers, and squeezed gently. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just ask him on a proper date one day. Do this properly.  
  
"Fuck, I'm supposed to be a good influence, aren't I? Shit," Clint added. "Take your antidepressants, Barnes."  
  
"I'll think about it," Bucky says half-heartedly.  
  
Maybe doing things properly wasn't for them, anyway.  
  
**  
  
These fancy get-togethers were even more boring when you were supposed to be a guest than when you were assassinating one of said guests. Bucky didn't even know why they were here, he'd stopped listening after Tony had said "ball" and "mandatory." Steve handed him a glass of champagne, which he took with the hand currently hidden under a leather glove, and leaned against the pillar with him. At least no one was trying to befriend him, although an old lady had pinched his asscheek earlier, which had been mortifying to him and hilarious to everyone else. Bucky continued surveying the ballroom silently, assessing threats and keeping half an eye on Clint, who was talking with Phil Coulson in the corner. His bowtie was wonky again, even though Bucky had fixed it before they'd stepped in the doors of the building. He didn't know what to make of Coulson, who was apparently supposed to be dead but had turned up breathing nonetheless. He hadn't known the man, he didn't care. But Clint did, by the looks of it.  
  
The corner of his mouth was pulled down in an upset frown as Coulson talked to him, gesturing gently with one hand. He didn't look like he was going to go on a murder spree just yet, though, so Bucky took a sip of the champagne and tried not to gag. Nope, he definitely preferred the vodka hidden in the flask in his suit jacket. Steve didn't say anything for a minute, watching the crowds of milling people with him and then he turned his head slightly and inclined his chin towards Coulson, who was looking earnest as he spoke to Clint.  
  
"That doesn't bother you?"  
  
"What, it's not like they're gossiping about me," he answers.  
  
At least he didn't think they were. He hadn't even said hello to the agent yet, surely not. Coulson said something with a gentle smile, reaching for Clint's hand and faltering slightly as the blond yanked his arm away hurriedly, tucking his hand in his dress pants. Again with the no-touching, he thought, and caught sight of Natasha on the balcony above them in a glittering black dress. Still, Clint didn't make any move to actually escape from Coulson, so Bucky had another try at drinking the champagne. He could tell Steve was studying him from the corner of his eye, but he wasn't sure why, exactly. He barely managed not to spit out the mouthful of champagne.  
  
"Phil and Clint had something, before he supposedly died," Steve says quietly, and oh. That'd explain it.  
  
"I ain't stepping in unless he tries touching him without permission again," he replies, crossing his arms. "Then I'll break his damn wrist."  
  
"I'd prefer if you didn't," Steve answers. "But you should go. He looks uncomfortable."  
  
Bucky sighs, because he didn't really want to get involved, but if Steve was insisting, he could go give Clint his drink. It wasn't like he was enjoying it. If Clint wanted him to piss off after that, well, he could. He pushes off the pillar and strides towards them, and Phil notices his approach. He doesn't look put off or anything, but there's something distinctly cold about his eyes when Bucky leans up against Clint's back and hands him the champagne flute. The unspoken threat doesn't bother him. Clint's back is warm against his chest, and he sags back against him almost visibly, which qualms any fears Bucky had about not being wanted here. Looks like Clint was hoping for an escape, or at least some comfort. And Phil Coulson is by far the least frightening thing he's seen in a decade.  
  
Clint takes the champagne immediately, swigging the whole thing down in two seconds like it's air to a drowning man. Bucky takes the glass back with a snort once he's done and sets it on a nearby table, and then he offers his metal hand to Coulson. He doesn't think the look on his own face is quite as kind and friendly as the new Director of SHIELD's is, but Coulson takes his hand anyway, shakes it with a firm grip.  
  
"Phil Coulson. It's a pleasure, I'm a big fan," he greets.  
  
"A fan of HYDRA? Bit morbid, don'tcha think," Bucky comments.  
  
"No, Phil was- is- a fan of Steve's. And yours. He's got all the merch," Clint corrects, and his voice sounds a little strained.  
  
"I never wore those shorts, you know," he says, trying to break the tension. It doesn't work, not exactly, but at least Coulson isn't trying to touch Clint again. Especially because Clint's somehow managed to snuggle himself under Bucky's right arm during the conversation. He smells like aftershave and there's a hidden knife that's poking into his ribs. But Clint seems more comfortable there, so Bucky doesn't say anything about it, gives Coulson a challenging look when he takes in the position the two of them are in. Coulson seems more surprised than displeased by the way they're glued together. Had Clint ever gone to Phil for protection like this? Probably not. And wow, Natasha hadn't really needed to spell it out, had she?  
  
"They didn't look very practical, did they?" Coulson smiles again. "I'm so sorry, Sergeant Barnes, I have people to strike deals with before this ends, but I'd love to talk more about it sometime. Clint, do you think after the party we could talk privately?"  
  
"Sorry, Phil, already got plans," Clint says casually.  
  
"It's j-"  
  
"We've got a fancy hotel booked," Bucky interrupts. "Real fancy. Check in is ten sharp. You'll have to borrow him some other time."  
  
Phil looks slightly affronted, but he can't bring himself to care. Making people uncomfortable is one of his skills. He levels a cold stare at the SHIELD director and settles his flesh arm a little more comfortably around Clint's shoulders. Phil's dark eyes travel over to Clint, who doesn't say anything else, and then up to where they're pressed together solidly. Something flashes across his eyes, too quick for Bucky to recognise it as anything coherent, and then he's smiling mildly again, looking amused. He's unsettled by it. Why did he have to surround himself with people who were that good at pretending?  
  
"Alright. Some other time. I'll see you two around, then," Phil agrees, and offers a wave before going into the swarm of people in the main area.  
  
Clint sags against him with a defeated sigh. Bucky pulls him into a proper hug, giving the slightly offended-looking onlookers a glare when Clint's cold nose presses against his neck. So what if they were in a posh place, it wasn't like there was a sign that explicitly banned physical contact. He catches Steve's eye from across the hall, and gets a silently raised eyebrow that means _do you need backup_? He shakes his head no, and guides Clint into a semi-secluded corner where he can deposit the blond on a chair and pull another close so they can talk over the jazz music playing over speakers.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Clint looks tired. "Thanks. He's tried that before, and Nat had to rescue me."  
  
"No problem," Bucky answers. "You didn't answer the question, though."  
  
He gets a smile with no humour in it for that. "He doesn't- he acts like it's no big deal that he's alive. He doesn't know what it felt like. To be free of Loki and realise- ugh."  
  
Bucky doesn't have anything to say to that, but he can only imagine what it would be like to realise you'd assisted in the murder of your love interest. He's glad HYDRA is more or less gone, or at least broken up enough to be no real threat to him. And all those fucking chairs have been broken and destroyed beyond repair. Clint buries his head in his hands and lets out a muffled groan. Bucky squints at a woman who gets a little too close, looking worried, and she backs off hurriedly.  
  
"You realise he's got eyes everywhere, right?"  
  
"So?"  
  
"He'll know you were lying about the hotel when we go back to the Tower," Clint says wearily.  
  
Bucky pulls his metal hand out of his pocket and rummages around in the jacket of his suit, finding the inner pocket and slipping the black keycard out to wave at Clint, who peeks at it between his fingers. Clint's hands drop into his lap and his eyebrows raise curiously. Bruce had suggested the place- apparently it was pretty upmarket, but guests were left more or less to their own devices. And they had in-hotel pizza and room service. It had seemed like a decent enough idea at the time, but now it was looking even better. Clint was looking at him like he'd stolen the Mona Lisa or something.  
  
"Has Doctor Strange been teaching everyone magic and no one invited me?" Clint asks.  
  
Bucky snorts. "No."  
  
"Then... you know what? It doesn't matter. Let's blow this joint, I hate these stupid parties," he says, standing up and plucking the card from Bucky's gloved hand.  
  
"Are we allowed to leave?" Bucky stands up as well, follows Clint as he finds a door in the corner and shoves it open, shirttails flapping in the breeze it causes. Clint shrugs rather than answering, which means _no_ , they aren't actually allowed to leave. But they can deal with the repercussions later, when Clint doesn't look like he's going to collapse on the ground from stress and never get up again. If Phil and Clint really did have something going on like Steve had said before his supposed death, it definitely wasn't returned on Clint's side anymore. Which was good news for Bucky, but maybe not for Coulson.  
  
**  
  
"Fancy," Clint notes, kicking his shoes off in the doorway.  
  
Bucky waves off the stressed-looking attendant, who probably wasn't expecting them for another hour or two but had shown them to their thirty-floor room anyway. She nods at them and disappears down the hallway without a word, and he looks down at the extravagant room service menu. Hmm. Good thing Tony was paying for this, even if he didn't know it yet. He kicks off his boots and socks as well and sets them neatly, pausing for a minute and then rearranging Clint's as well. May as well give off the impression that they were as posh as the place suggested, even if they weren't.  
  
Clint's lighting up a cigarette on the balcony when he makes his way through the suite. The vest is gone, too, and his shirt's unbuttoned enough to show a sliver of tanned skin. Bucky watches a trail of smoke drift up into the air and leans back on the railing. He's kind of relieved to be away from the crowds too, if he's honest. It wasn't as if they'd be missed, neither of them were exactly charmers. That was Tony and Steve's job. And Sam's. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. If it was something important they'd call him. Clint looks up at the night sky, smoke held between his fingers.  
  
"Didn't know you smoked," Bucky says, snagging it out of his hand to take a drag himself.  
  
Clint shrugs as he gives it back to him. "Terrible fucking habit. If I start drinking, though, I won't stop until the bottle's empty and the room's upside down."  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
They stand there in silence for a while, and Bucky is content to watch Clint smoke quietly. He got the feeling seeing Coulson had shaken him up more than a little, especially when the man kept trying to get him alone. At least he wasn't asking questions Bucky didn't want to answer. Like-  
  
"Why did you have a keycard to a hotel on you?"  
  
Oops. There it was. "I'm psychic," he answers dryly.  
  
Clint's dark eyes are on him then, the vibrancy of them washed out in the moonlight, but that frightening intensity in his gaze was still there. It made Bucky a little nervous. "If you were psychic, you wouldn't be hanging around me. I spend half of my time thinking about Dog Cops."  
  
"And the other half about food?" Bucky hazards a guess.  
  
Clint's lips quirk up in a smile, the first real one of the night as he stubs out the cigarette. "Maybe."  
  
The room service arrives then, freshly made and steaming hot pizza that distracts Clint completely in his race to eat as many slices as possible before he makes himself sick. Bucky wonders if there had been more to what he was thinking about, something that came after the maybe. He picks a slice of pepperoni off the plate and chews on it, wondering how he's supposed to explain that he'd booked the hotel room because he'd wanted to get Clint alone properly. To try and pry some answers out of the blond about whether they were going to make this a real thing or whether they were just going to dance around each other for everyone's entertainment until one of them died of old age.  
  
Clint belched and Bucky rolled his eyes and sprawled backwards onto the giant bed, taking up as much space as he could. Unfortunately, with the size of the bed, there was still plenty of room for Clint to shimmy out of his dress pants and settle in next to Bucky, resting his cheek on the metal arm. He turned his head to see Clint relaxing against the arm, eyes closing. He looked so peaceful that Bucky felt guilty for even trying to interrogate him about their relationship status. What if he wasn't ready? He was clearly still upset about what had happened with Coulson- maybe he just wanted to mess around. And that was... fine, wasn't it?  
  
"I can feel the gears grinding in your brain from here," Clint grumbles without opening his eyes. The pink bandaid is still stuck to his jaw.  
  
"Sorry," Bucky says quietly.  
  
"'s okay. What's rattling around in there?"  
  
"Was thinking about you and that guy. Coulson."  
  
Clint lets out a huff against the arm. "It's fine. He just wants something I don't. Never would've worked out anyway."  
  
"Because you're a superhero?"  
  
"Nah. He wasn't- it wasn't right. We weren't right. For each other."  
  
Bucky hums agreeably and Clint blinks his eyes open. They're as intense as ever, brilliantly blue in the lamplight. Clint studies him for a moment in that way that's eerily reminiscent of a young Steve, and then he half-heartedly shrugs against the bed, his shirt catching on the sheets and pulling down on one shoulder to bare a scarred collarbone. Bucky doesn't realise he's looking until Clint makes an amused noise in the back of his throat and squirms an inch closer to him.  
  
"You ever find someone who was right for you? Before... everything else?"  
  
Bucky glances away from Clint and looks past his ear at the wall. "Nah. Thought if I went out with as many girls as I could, one of them would be. Was wrong. Apparently the internet calls it 'Gay Panic.'"  
  
Clint makes a sympathetic hum and pats at his shoulder gently. "Well, you're free to find yourself a guy now. Brave new world, Barnes."  
  
_I already have_ , he thought but didn't say, but Clint smiles to himself and snuggles in closer until he's pressing a warm line into Bucky's side. It's much better than him hiding under Bucky's arm at the party, partially because they're not wearing any weapons to get in the way, but mostly because Clint seems completely comfortable here. Like he trusts Bucky to keep him safe. Like it's alright to do this even though there's no one here to disgust with their fake romantics, even though their whole relationship is supposed to be a farce to deceive and unsettle Tony and Steve.  
  
And maybe that's okay. Maybe this is okay. Maybe it's okay to be a little in love with Clint Barton.  
  
Clint lets out a snore and Bucky stifles the inappropriate urge to laugh at him. Then he slides the hearing aids he's stolen onto the bedside table so they're safe and wraps an arm around Clint as he sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes up in the morning, Clint is half on-top of him, warm and... drooling on his chest. Great. Oh well. He cards the fingers of his right hand through blonde hair and is delighted to find it's fluffy and _soft_. He'd thought it was gel all this time. It probably still was, some of the time, but at the moment it was silky and nice against his fingers. Clint snuffles and tries to hide in his armpit, away from the sunlight leaking through the lace curtains. Bucky snorts at him and pulls his hair gently, with just enough force to get him to raise his head and blink blearily.

"Wh'sat?"

 _Good morning,_ he signs.

Clint squints first at him, then at the clock beside the bed. He looks unimpressed with the time the clock provides him with, which is silly. It's ten in the morning, which is pretty on-brand for Clint but unlikely for Bucky- with the nightmares and the paranoia, it's _hard_ , but he can't help that Clint makes him feel safe too. Even when he's drooling.

_Does this place come with free coffee?_

Bucky snorts. Typical. _There's a place downstairs. Want me to get some?_

Clint pauses, thinks about it for a second, and then signs back. _Nah. Leave it for now. You're warm. And comfy._

 _Is that what I am to you? Just a replacement couch?_ Bucky signs resignedly, but his lips curl up into a smile.

 _You're a pretty hot couch,_ Clint signs with a shrug.

_Thanks._

Clint nods sleepily and lowers his head back down, patting Bucky's chest as his eyes close again. It's peaceful. There doesn't seem to be any residents of the hotel on this floor besides them, and he can't hear anything but the birds, Clint's steady heartbeat and faint traffic outside. Technically, they have to be gone by twelve, but Bucky's sure he can use Tony's card to pay the attendants not to worry about them for a few more hours if Clint still wants to sleep. His hand lands back on Clint's hair and smoothes it down gently. He doesn't think the blond is actually unconscious still, but he seems happy to lay there comfortably for a while longer and Bucky doesn't have the heart to chuck him out of bed just yet.

His phone buzzes again, insistent, and he lets out a sigh. Clearly the outside world doesn't want them to have a moment. He reaches for the device with his free hand and flicks it on, seeing two missed messages from Steve and one from Natasha. Natasha can wait, he decides, as he clicks on the picture of Steve he's set as the contact photo. In it, Steve's sitting on the couch in Tony's workshop, asleep. There's charcoal smeared across his cheek and his mouth is open and Bucky loves it, it's absolutely ridiculous. He and Tony only seem to bond over teasing Captain America, it seems.

 _Steve:_ Where are you?

 _Steve:_ Tony says you stole one of his credit cards. I don't know how he knows, given how many cards he owns, but he says not to use it for anything illegal.

Bucky sighs. Since when has he done anything illegal since he's returned to the Tower as an Avenger? He hasn't. That's when. If it had been Clint, maybe it would be a different matter, but he had no intentions of letting Clint do anything that might endanger himself. He continues petting the blond quietly while he types back to Steve with one hand, nearly dropping it on his sort-of-not boyfriend's head.

 _Bucky:_ hey. @ hotel w/ c. nothing bad.

 _Steve:_ Is Clint okay? Did Phil say something to him?

 _Bucky:_ nah. think he just tired.

 _Bucky:_ we'll be back l8r.

 _Steve:_ Okay, Buck.

**

“Hey,” Bucky says, in Clint’s ear.

“Hey,” Clint greets back, and lets the arrow fly.

They both watch as it sinks into the taped-up picture of Pierce on the wall, directly in the pupil of the right eye. Bucky isn’t entirely sure how he feels about Pierce replacing the target that had until recently had a grainy security camera shot of Loki on it, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. Clint pulls out another arrow and shoots, and Bucky enjoys the play of Clint’s biceps as he draws the bow. While he’s not supersoldier beefy, he’s definitely nice to watch, especially in a thin sleeveless shirt and dark jeans he’d stolen from Bucky that are sliding down a little low. He slips one hand around Clint to thumb at his exposed hipbone, which earns him a laugh.

“Can’t shoot like this,” Clint notes. “Gonna make me just toss the arrows at the target?”

“You want me to let go?”

Clint leans back into him, relaxed. “Nah. You’re warm.”

The bow gets set down gently on the bench, with the spare arrows. Technically, there’s not supposed to be shooting on the roof, but the breeze is soft in Bucky’s hair and he knows high places are his sort-of-kind-of boyfriend’s thing, so if FRIDAY doesn’t say anything he won’t either. He presses a quick kiss to Clint’s jaw and brings his free hand out to present what he’d carried up here; a pair of red tulips, shockingly bright against the silver of his steel fingers. Clint grins and accepts them cheerfully, twisting around so he can look Bucky in the eye.

“Tulips?” He questions.

“You like?”

“I do. Aren’t red tulips supposed to be a declaration of love? Very romantic, Sergeant Barnes,” Clint says, looping his arms around Bucky’s neck.

“I do my best,” he replies, trying for nonchalant when he’s quietly ecstatic that Clint seems to like them.

Clint leans in to kiss him and it’s easy to close his eyes and kiss back. Far easier than he remembers with anyone else, although that could be because the only person he’d truly cared about and kissed had been Steve, and that had been more of a platonic thing anyway. It shouldn’t be so simple, so _right_ to just fall into bringing Clint coffee and flowers and kisses, but it is. It’s amazing. His flesh hand tightens on Clint’s waist fractionally, feeling the rough denim and a sliver of warm skin under his fingertips. Clint makes a noise in the back of his throat, barely audible, and the bottom drops out of Bucky’s stomach.

“Eurgh,” Tony comments.

Clint tilts away from him to poke his tongue out at Tony. “You’re just jealous because _you_ don’t get flowers.”

“I don’t want flowers,” Tony says grumpily. “I have a blond bombshell of a boyfriend and my sex life is fabulous. Flowers are temporary, a good lay is forever.”

Clint scrunches up his nose. “I don’t want to think about that. Gross, Stark.”

“What, is your supersoldier not a sex god too? Hah.”

Clint opens his mouth to snap something witty back, but Bucky quickly smacks a hand over his mouth and then twists around to glare at Tony, who is leaning against the door casually. His eyes are curious, roving over where the two of them are inches apart, Clint’s arms still resting on Bucky’s shoulders. The gaze turns critical a moment later, and something sly alights in Tony’s eyes that makes him immediately uncomfortable.

“Have you two not- wow. Wow, Barton, and here I thought you were as much of a seducer as our dear Natasha is.”

“Fuck off, Stark,” Bucky intervenes, scowling.

“Hey now, Terminator, nothing wrong with taking it slow,” Tony says casually, lifting his hands in a shrug.

“Fuck _off_ ,” he repeated, voice rising, because Clint looked indignant and angry, and while he didn’t think Stark would actually end up with an arrow in his head, it wasn’t smart to upset a sharpshooter with his weapon in easy range. Bucky didn’t take his hand off of Clint’s mouth, glaring hard at Tony. Their sex life wasn’t any of his business- he didn’t expect the man to have any sense of privacy, but still. Tony rolls his eyes and leaves. Bucky huffs and removes his hand from Clint’s lips.

“Jerk,” Bucky notes, grimacing.

He’s greeted with silence from beside him, and looks away from the still-swinging door to see Clint looking at the floor, eyes dark and expression unreadable. He looks… stormy, for lack of a better word, and now Bucky’s kind of wishing the blond was still angry. He reaches out to pull him close, to try and remove that look somehow, but Clint steps away from him and Bucky pulls his hands back like he’s been burned, because it _hurts_.

“Barton? Don’t tell me you’re letting Stark get to you,” he reasons.

Clint doesn’t look at him.

“Clint, come on. It doesn’t matter if they’ve had more sex than us.”

“I’m not angry about _Tony’s_ _sex_ _life_ ,” Clint spits with more venom than he’s expecting. “This is- why are we _doing_ this, it’s stupid. Steve doesn’t give a shit about us fucking with him, and Tony just wants to lord his perfect little life over us because he’s an asshole. I’m going.”

Clint storms past him, and Bucky grabs at his bare arm as he passes, but Clint yanks himself away, stumbles and keeps going, something seething and frightening in his face that Bucky is too scared to mess with. He’s too stunned by the outburst to chase the man, though, so he just stares as Clint slams the door down from the roof shut behind him. A cold spike of fear stabs through him and he doesn’t quite manage to flinch at one of the tulips lying on the concrete, looking abandoned.

**

“Buck, come on. Talk to me,” Steve begs.

Bucky grunts in reply and makes a grab for the vodka, but Steve pulls it out of reach and he nearly overbalances and falls off the couch. Steve crosses his arms and frowns, and Bucky scowls back at him. It took a lot of effort to get drunk these days, and it took even more effort when his best friend kept cleaning out his stash while he was wallowing in misery. He gives up on the vodka and sinks back into the cushions, hoping if he goes limp enough they’ll swallow him up. It doesn’t work and Steve sighs at him, unimpressed, before setting the vodka on the coffee table. Then Bucky’s letting out a squawk because Steve is _sitting on his knees._

“I’m cutting you off,” he says firmly.

“Fuck you,” Bucky answers tiredly, and tries to turn over to ignore him. Unfortunately, Steve isn’t as light as he used to be and there’s no chance of actually getting away from the blond when he can’t get any leverage. Steve stares at him silently for a minute, long enough that Bucky wonders if he’s become a statue, and then Steve’s brows crease and he looks worried.

“I can’t find Clint,” Steve says.

Great. Because he really wants to have a conversation about the Amazing Hawkeye right now. He wonders if Steve’s heard that their whole relationship was bullshit yet. Because he’d know. He’d know Bucky was in stupidly deep with a guy who’d just been _acting_ the whole time, and Bucky had known and was still too dumb to actually break it off or get the balls to tell Clint in the first place. God, this was a fucking mess.

“He’s probably in the vents again,” Bucky grumbles, but Steve reads something in his expression and the frown deepens.

“I looked. I even asked FRIDAY, he’s not anywhere in the Tower. What happened?”

Bucky grimaces at him. “Nothin’. Fuck off.”

Steve lets out a sigh. Bucky doesn’t want to think about where Clint is, or what he’s doing. He’d disappeared on and off before they’d started this relationship, coming back wounded and grinning, and no one had questioned it. It was kind of weird he’d stopped for a while, actually, so it wasn’t surprising he’d started up again. Hopefully he isn’t with Phil Coulson. Bucky wriggles his legs to no avail, and Steve leans back against the couch tiredly. He kind of wants to blame Tony, but really it isn’t Tony’s fault that Clint and Bucky are complete idiots who started fake dating just to annoy them.

He slumps back against the couch, and wonders if someone would be willing to lend him a cryotank so he can freeze himself for a few decades. Staying on the couch for a week is fine, but it doesn’t have the same kind of permanency that being sealed in ice does. Long enough to forget about his stupid crush on Clint Barton- hell, he can’t even call it a crush, it’s gone further than that. He’s in love with him, and he’s a fucking dumbass.

“You really like him, hey, Buck?” Steve says quietly.

“I _miss_ him,” Bucky says, the first honest thing he’s said about Clint in the last week. And he does- he didn’t realise how much time he actually spent with the archer until he didn’t have him to hang out with anymore. There was no playing weird video games, no commentary on his shooting, no sly flirting or having his coffee stolen out of his hands when he got up. Steve gives him a sad look and pats his thigh over his vodka-stained sweatpants in some form of comfort. It doesn’t help. He wonders if Clint feels the same gap in his life.

“I’m sure you two can work it out,” Steve says, soft. “You should tell him you love him.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah. That’ll work out great.”

“He’s a good man, and he seemed so happy with _you_. Everyone was so jealous. Whatever it is you two are fighting about, you can work it out if you talk it out.”

He doesn’t want to get sucked into this, wants to go back to drowning his sorrows in bad alcohol and worse television, but Steve’s got that earnestly excited expression on his face, the one Bucky’s never been able to say no to. And- should he really be just giving up like this? He survived seventy years of brainwashing and torture but he hasn’t even attempted to tell the man he loves that he _is_ the man he loves. What would the James Buchanan Barnes dreaming of faceless lovers in the trenches think of him now? Pathetic.

“You really think it’ll be okay if I tell him?”

Steve gives him a lopsided smile. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you when your back was turned. Like you were holding the sun. Natasha gave you her blessing, right?”

“I… sort of.”

“Find him,” Steve insists. “Tell him.”

“Ugh, fine,” Bucky groans.

Steve stands up with a triumphant grin and Bucky rolls off of the couch and manages to get to his feet. Alright. He can do this. Then he makes the mistake of looking down at his stained sweatpants and the shirt he hasn’t changed for a week and sighs. This probably isn’t the best outfit for a dramatic declaration of love. Especially if he has to go outside and- shit, how’s he supposed to _find_ Clint? The man’s a spy; he’s good at disappearing without a trace. It’s his _thing_. Except- there was one person who knew Clint better than Clint knew Clint, and she’d almost certainly have some clue as to where Bucky could begin searching. Steve’s looking at him expectantly, and he sheds his shirt and throws it. First, he needs a shower.

“Can you find Natasha?” He asks.

“I can,” Steve confirms.

Alright.

**

There are bodies _everywhere_.

He steps over one slumped in the doorway of the dark compound and his hand tightens reflexively on the MAC-10 clutched in his right hand. Their face is contorted in a grimace of terror and pain at the ceiling, and Bucky can see both wrists have been snapped, probably with Clint’s hands alone. It should be frightening, but he’s seen too much in life to be scared, and he knows Clint doesn’t just kill innocent people anyway. He walks slowly to the stairs leading to the upper levels, stopping to pull a black arrow from a woman’s chest with a sickening sound. He tucks it into his belt where it won’t be in the way and listens for sound, for some sign of life, but there’s nothing.

He hopes that’s just because Clint’s not here.

Natasha had handed over Clint’s location with little more than an exasperated look, which had made Bucky realise exactly how much trust _she_ had in him. She’d always talked about Clint trusting him, but he’d been on the team long enough to see how fiercely protective she was of her boys- Bruce and Tony and Steve and Clint (Thor didn’t seem to need protecting to her), so the fact she’d trusted him with Clint like this made something warm settle in Bucky’s chest. As far as he’d known, Natasha had never followed him on any of these missions either, so it was new territory.

He climbs the stairs as silently as he can in steel-capped boots and hopes Clint hasn’t done anything stupid. Although that’s probably wishful thinking, knowing Clint Barton the way he does. He gets to the top floor and rounds the corner, stopping cold when his eyes land on the red logo on the dead man’s uniform. He’s got an arrow sticking out of it, but Bucky can still make out the tentacles and the skull. _HYDRA_. Hadn’t they gotten rid of the last of the bases months ago? And how the hell had Clint known where to find them?

“-stupid, stupid fucking _idiot_ ,” came a voice from behind the reinforced door at the end of the hall.

Bucky pauses.

There’s a loud, worrying _crunch_ that grates in his ears, but he can still hear Clint muttering to himself, sounding upset, so he must be okay. The crunch is followed by a metallic clang and then a stream of curse words that sound so passionate that Bucky’s pushing the door open before he’s made a conscious decision to do so.

His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the sight of a bloodied, sweaty Clint Barton kicking a chair- the _chair_ , one of the chairs they used to wipe him. The fear and trepidation he usually feels at even thinking of the thing is lessened vastly when it’s half-ripped apart, however. Clint’s still in his tac vest and boots, a smear of grease high on his cheekbone and dark smudges under his eyes, but he’s got what looks like a large, impressive sledgehammer clasped in his calloused hands. The elegant lines of his thighs flex as he swings at the machinery again, and Bucky notices a crushed hearing aid on the floor a few feet away.

Then Clint turns, and he’s got a grimace on his face that dissolves into open shock as his eyes land on Bucky.

 _Hi,_ Bucky signs, nervous now he’s actually here. Except- _this is what you’ve been doing this whole time? Destroying things?_

Clint glances at the chair and then back at Bucky, and his eyes are so vibrantly _blue_ even now, bright with emotions Bucky can’t quite read. He bites his lip and then lifts his hands to sign back, bracers oddly missing. He wondered if Clint had forgotten them or whether they'd just been broken along the way somewhere. His arms look naked without them.  _Just the chairs. I found a way to track them all._

_Why?_

Clint gives him an unreadable look and then gives a defeated sigh. _I can’t feed you old memories like Steve or fix your arm like Tony, or give you psychology lessons like Sam. I’m destructive and I’m a killer, and this is all I can do to help you- especially because it keeps me away, where I can’t push my stupid feelings onto you like a-_ Bucky doesn’t know what the next word he signs is, but judging from the twist of Clint’s mouth it isn’t anything nice.

 _You’re dumb,_ Bucky signs back, and Clint’s shoulders drop. _I don’t need you to kill HYDRA or destroy chairs for me, I need you at the Tower being safe and annoying me and calling me ridiculous pet names where I can tell if you’re having too much coffee, and I need you to let me patch you up when you’re hurt and scare off your weird ex-boyfriends and-_

He stops there, realises he’s ranting completely in ASL with furious motions of his hands and Clint’s staring at him with wide, wide eyes.

“I love you,” he says, and even though Clint can’t hear it he can lipread, Bucky’s seen him do it, and he can see the minute Clint comprehends what he’s just said.

“Did I hit my head,” Clint croaks, but his lips are twitching up into an incredulous smile and that’s when Bucky knows for _sure_ that it wasn’t all faking and bullshit, everything they’d been doing. He takes a few long strides and Clint drops the sledgehammer with a loud thunk and grabs him around the waist and then they’re kissing. Clint’s mouth is still as familiar and hot as he remembers, but they’re both grinning stupidly and it’s messy and silly and absolutely fucking _wonderful_.

“For the record, I might love you too,” Clint says offhandedly.

Bucky snorts and pulls back enough to sign, _might? You’re a charmer, Barton._

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got no idea,” comes the retort.

_Can we go home now? Please?_

“You gonna buy me dinner and kiss my bruises?”

_Don’t get too cocky._

**

“Well, and here I thought the honeymoon period was over,” Tony comments.

Bucky doesn’t look up from what he’s doing- which is maintaining sustained eye contact with Clint, who’s shirtless and draped artfully over the couch, as he leans down and presses his lips to the next bruise. This one’s just under Clint’s ribs, and he’s fairly sure it hadn’t been there last night so apparently he’d managed to accumulate it in the last twelve hours. It was amazing how he managed to kill thirty guards without a hitch and then tripped over his own feet. He moves onto the next one, blooming a nice shade of purple and situated on the warm skin of his stomach, and Clint sniggers.

“Disgusting,” Tony adds. “Do you two do this just to upset everyone around you?”

“I mean-“ Clint starts contemplatively as Bucky smirks, but Steve interrupts them with a put-upon sigh.

“You do exactly the same thing _and_ you’ve been doing it for longer,” he says, and Clint’s eyes widen with glee.

“You do it too,” Tony protests. “In fact, you _started_ it, Mister Pinnacle-of-Innocence-And-Goodness.”

When he processes what Tony’s just said he turns and eyes Steve, who’s standing by the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s looking- not guilty, exactly, but there’s a mischievous glint in those blue eyes that makes Bucky’s narrow in suspicion.  Clint points past him at Steve accusingly after a moment, and seriously? He’d remembered Steve was a stirring shit on more than one occasion, but Christ, his poker face was good. He’d been fucking with them this _whole time_? It had been weeks- hell, _months_.

“I’m going to throw you out a window,” he informs Steve.

Steve grins. “Nah. You love me.”

“All those ridiculous gestures of love was just Captain America being an asshole,” Clint echoes. “Captain America is an asshole.”

“Steve Rogers has always been an asshole,” Bucky answers dryly, and Steve’s eyes light up with mirth.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he says amusedly. “And anyway, Buck, it got you with Clint, didn’t it? You can’t complain.”

Bucky grumbles wordlessly and turns to hide his face in Clint’s stomach, which would be easier if his definitely- _not_ -sort-of boyfriend wasn’t laughing at him. Steve’s laughing too, although Tony seems to still be offended by the idea that everyone around him existed purely to vex the others. Bucky snorts and settles his cheek on Clint’s thigh, looking at the two scarlet tulips placed in a delicate vase of water.

He could get used to this.


End file.
